Brock paused with mouth open, then gave a kind of grimace, as though he had realised the only way to get that turd out of his bed was with his fingers. “We don’t want to depose you, Your Majesty—”
“Please don’t ‘Majesty’ me, it’s faintly ridiculous at the best of times, but with armies in the field it’s positively absurd. Let’s talk like equals. Like friends. Just for tonight. I imagine tomorrow’s events will necessitate a whole new relationship between us, in any case.”
Brock grimaced again as he pronounced the name. “Orso, then—”
“Wine?” asked Orso, and Hildi ghosted forward with a cloth over one arm and tipped the bottle towards Brock’s glass.
“Not for me.”
“I hope you won’t mind if I do, it’s a very good Osprian. Maybe your friends would like to—”
Whitewater Jin looked as if he might be on the point of accepting but Brock jumped in first. “My friends want the same thing as me. To avoid a battle, if we can. That’s why I’m here.”
“You’re invading Midderland… to avoid a battle? Couldn’t you have simply… stayed loyal?” And Orso took a noisy slurp from his glass, regarding the Lord Governor of Angland over the rim.
“Loyal?” Brock stared back at him, ever so slightly pale. “No man was more loyal than me when Scale Ironhand attacked the Protectorate. We leaped to the Dogman’s defence. Never considered anything else. We were outnumbered but we fought even so. We knew we had the Union behind us. We knew help would come. Any day.” He looked over at the Steadfast Standard, chest swelling with pride, as if the damn thing really was made of gold rather than just gold thread. “Back then, I would’ve followed that flag into hell!”
Orso swallowed uncomfortably. This story was making his wine taste somewhat sour.
“But all we got from Midderland was well-wishes,” said Brock, nobly disappointed, “and empty promises, and endless demands for taxes. Do you wonder why there wasn’t a man in Angland who wouldn’t follow me here?” His voice was growing louder and louder. Self-righteousness suited him. “We fought your war. Men died. My friends died. I nearly died. My leg burns with every step and stinks like a shithouse floor and will never heal.” Brock smashed the table with his fist and made the cutlery jump. “And all because you sat here on your fat arses while we fought for our lives!”
Orso felt Gorst shift as the echoes faded and he held up a calming hand. The room was very still. He had to admit, he had never felt more respect for Leo dan Brock than at that moment. He was a man one could envy. A man for whom everything was simple. And he had a good claim to being the injured party. It was a shame it had come to this.
“You make a very good point,” said Orso. “No doubt it will mean nothing to you now, but I find it hard to describe my utter shame and disgust that you were sent no help. I did try, in my own rather useless way… something of an irony that most of the men I field against you now are the ones I raised to help you then. But the Breakers rose up in Valbeck, and I had to fight that fire first. And then… well. You know what happened at Red Hill and afterwards better than anyone. Suffice to say you managed without us. The Closed Council let you down. My father let you down.” He took a hard breath. “I let you down. But… is this really the remedy? Insurrection? Treason? Civil war?”
Brock glared across the table. “You left us no choice.”
“Really? Because I don’t remember anyone trying to talk to me about it. I know we have our differences, but we both, I think, believe in the Union? While there is still time—can we not find a way to satisfaction without the deaths of so many of our countrymen? Can we not find some common ground?”
“Perhaps,” said Brock coldly, “if you were to dismiss your entire Closed Council and replace them with men of our choosing.”
“And taking a wild guess… you would choose yourselves?”
“We’d choose patriots!” shouted Brock, thumping the table again but with less conviction. “Men of quality.” Moving away from the sun-drenched uplands of anger and into the shadowy thickets of politics, he was rather less impressive. “Men who can… well… take the Union back to its founding principles.”
“But whether a man is a patriot, or for that matter of quality, all depends on who you ask, doesn’t it? Our current predicament makes that abundantly clear, if nothing else. As for principles, it was Bayaz who founded the Union, and he’s still on the Closed Council when it pleases him, in spite of my best efforts. You should spend some time in there. You’ll find your most proudly rigid principles turn shockingly flaccid. The First of the Magi can stretch them until they fit around any outrage, believe me.”
Leo dan Brock’s impressive jaw muscles worked, but to little result. He really was no philosopher. “We have the numbers,” he grumbled. “You have to surrender.”
“Well, I’m no general, but I believe… technically speaking… I could fight and lose? Put yourself in my place. Would you surrender?”
Orso could almost see the wheels turning behind Brock’s eyes. Plainly, putting himself in someone else’s place was not something he did often. Was not something he had the equipment for. Perhaps it was fortunate that Hildi barged in at that moment with a gilded tray in her hands, two bowls of Suljuk porcelain steaming on top.
“Aha!” Orso whisked up his spoon. “My cook is called Bernille, and I know they say nothing good ever comes from Talins, but I swear her soup will change your mind.”
Brock frowned down at his bowl, then over at his friend Antaup.
“Oh, come on, I’m not going to poison you.” Orso leaned across, dipped his spoon in Brock’s soup and sucked it dry. “Now eat up, there’s a good fellow. There are excuses for High Treason but letting Bernille’s soup go cold is bloody unforgivable.”
Probably it was great soup. If kings don’t have great soup, who does, after all? But Leo was in no mood to enjoy it. He felt angry, and worried, and with the sky almost dark outside the narrow windows, like he’d missed his chance. He’d been sure Orso would be out of his depth with soldiers in the field. That he’d be weak, and cowardly, and desperate to concede to anything. But the man couldn’t have looked more relaxed. You had to admire his nerve. Anyone would’ve thought he was the one with the numbers.
“So…” and Orso tossed his spoon into his empty bowl. “If I replace my Closed Council with your chosen men, I get to stay king? I honestly don’t enjoy it, but all my crockery has little crowns on, and so forth. Changing everything would be…” He glanced at his strange little waiter.
She puffed out her cheeks as she filled his glass again. “Bloody nightmare.”
“We’re not usurpers,” grumbled Leo, “we’re—”
“Patriots, yes, of course,” said Orso, “but I’m not sure you’ve thought this all the way through. Once the troops go home… what’s to stop me changing my mind?”
Leo had tended to leave the thinking through to Jurand, and Savine, and his mother, and none of them was there. He frowned and said nothing.